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A small, secluded cave peeks from the side of a snowswept mountain, with no hint of the heroic battle that long ago took place in its gloomy hall. Dried bones litter the floor, clutching ancient, rusty weapons and primitive armors of some barbaric tribe. Men, orcs, or undead - it is difficult to tell now what these desiccated remains once were, but how they met their fate can be read clearly in the razor-clean cuts through metal and bone on the bodies they left behind, and in the peaceful knight at the end of the hall, shining armor caked in flakes of snow, and a gleaming weapon laid to rest there, waiting for another worthy enough to take up its mantle. Is it fortune or divine grace that led you to the resting place of this old hero? 

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